


your heart in my hand

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, dark!fic, s4 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester retrieves his brother from hell. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heart in my hand

The blood on his hands had dried a couple of hours ago. It was crusty, and dark— like armor over his skin.

It didn’t stop the shaking, though.

All traces of warmth had left him, the heat that the blood had given him gone. The wall against his back was solid, and comforting— but undeniably cold. His breath rolled out of his mouth and escaped him. He was getting colder, shivering harder. Where his hands weren’t russet, they were white.

Earlier, he had laughed. Crazily. The complete hopelessness of his situation, the absurdity of the outcome, the pure loss he had felt, couldn’t have been dealt with any other way. If he had thought too hard about it, cried a few more tears, he would’ve gone insane.

Maybe he was, already. Any sane man who sins too much knows the road he will follow.

Sam Winchester had tried to rescue his brother from hell, and failed. One chance, and, inevitably, he had fucked it all up and failed.

Well,  _technically._

A pretty  _dark_ , old, and forgotten spell that had taken years to find seemed to be his godsend. It was pretty self-sacrificial, ritualistic, and definitely not for family audiences. But, for Dean? Sam would’ve scoffed, if he’d had the energy. For Dean, it was nothing. He got all the required materials through means he’d already forgotten out of grief and denial, and began.

It was his own blood that had poured over him. He had felt light, dizzy- and hopeful, he might even risk using the dreaded word  _happy-_ for the first time since Dean had…. well, you know. The spell had put on a fucking show— the bowl placed in the middle of the table in the crypt had spun and shot off sparks and all the other bells and whistles of all things demonic. Sometime during that, somehow, the blood loss from the giant gash in his chest had stopped completely. He was grateful for that, even though he didn’t give a flying fuck whether he lived or died. His own life, he thought little to none about. But Dean? He had to live. Had to be safe. Sam owed it to him.  _He owed it to him._

The theatrics over, there had been a blinding flash of white light (a good sign), and then absolutely nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Except a dark, raw, and motionless heart had appeared on the table and Sam’s bowl was gone. No Dean, no demon-Dean, no nothing.

It was then the laugher/babble/cries bubbled out of Sam.

-

He was brought back to reality by a strange sound, an almost sickening  _glulp_  followed by a _dripdripdripdrip_  followed by a  _thump_.

The heart on the table had begun to beat.  _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Sam stood up, tired and homicidal and suicidal. For lack of anything else to do in the joke of a situation that appeared to be his life, he picked up the heart. Not only was it warm, and solid, but Sam was given a surge of conviction that it  _was_  Dean. No logical explanation, he probably was batshit insane by this point, but whatever. Sam shielded the heart from the rain and carefully placed it in the Impala before gunning it away from Fuck-Nowhere, Indiana.

-

It felt good to be with Dean again. It felt natural, right— it felt perfect. The glass vase that used to hold flowers in some shitty motel somewhere fit Dean perfectly inside. The pulse was muted behind the glass, but Sam could still hear it constantly, and that was comforting. Plus, jars were airtight, and Dean needed to breathe. And Dean was prettier than any flowers. Fuck the hotel manager and his little badly-contained intake of breath. Fuck him. 

He’d often just go on long trans-America drives with Dean, stopping at their favorite burger joints and shitty tourist sites. He knew how squeamish people were, how weak, so Dean stayed inside Sam’s backpack. It would have to do, for now. Plus, he knew Dean still enjoyed their journeys. It was just a gut feeling, a confidence, but it was enough.

So on he drove, with his heart by his side.

-

He still bought two beds and two meals everywhere he went, even though he kept Dean in his bed and obviously didn’t feed him. The occasional hunt brought Sam back home bruised and bloody, but he couldn’t feel it. Dean was here, Dean would make sure he was okay. And that was enough.

-

One Saturday afternoon brought them to a dusty town in Arizona with nothing to do and nowhere to go. The TV was on, but muted. The air conditioning was on full blast and a fan had been pointed at Dean for good measure.

"Hey, Godzilla remake is on. I bet you’d still be able to recite the entire thing from memory, with your crazy addition to it and whatever."

The radiator in the corner rattled and wheezed. A car outside screamed as it turned a corner and disappeared, the first car he’d heard for hours. Sam leaned back in his bed and it squeaked beneath him. Dean pumped away inside his vase. The clock counted out seconds even though the day seemed to stand still.

"Mind going up to Maine next? I’m tired of all this heat, jesus. Maybe we can try camping again, try not do die this time."

Dean’s pulse sped up, and Sam felt the surge of protest inside his head. He smiled. “No Maine, huh? Middle ground and go to Michigan or something?”

His grin grew slightly, and his cheeks dimpled. He could practically hear Dean’s begrudging mutters of agreement, feel his annoyance.

"Cool. We’ll start driving tomorrow. For now, I’m tired as fuck. Looks like more Godzilla for you, nerd."

A beat passed. Literally.

"Jerk."

Sam leaned over and kicked the radiator into silence before unmuting the television. Shifting the pillows to get comfortable, Sam forced the smile to stay plastered on his face and fought down the nausea. He’d give anything to see Dean’s honest-to-god face again, but he’d already tried. He’d sell his soul to hear Dean’s voice that wasn’t his voicemail, but yep, been there, done that. Failure. 

He tried to console himself, convince himself Dean was out of hell. He’d done the right thing— in a twisted way, he’d saved his brother. He stubbornly ignored the faintness of his own pulse and continued on, for Dean’s benefit. He’d want that. Dean was alive. Dean wasn’t burning. They were together. Bobby didn’t understand, tried to find a psychiatrist. No one understood. Bobby was better off not knowing where they were. It was funny, in a bitter way— to the hunting world, they were both dead. 

Sam knew he was fucked up. He knew each day was a day closer to the end of the line. But he had his brother. Nothing else mattered anymore. 

And that was enough.


End file.
